Sometimes, Trish has to remind herself that this-- this kind of quiet, still, almost boredom-- is a gift. The hours have crawled by, tedium, as she’s perched herself on the edge of the deck, binoculars in hand. It’s not her least favorite security shift, but it doesn’t exactly get her blood flowing. Every half an hour, she and her buddy, Jen, they get to switch places, rotating forty-five degrees around the circular walkway for a different vantage point and, man, that’s when the excitement really kicks in.
There are other details out across the town, she knows. Some are walking the perimeter. Some are stationed at the community checkpoints. Some are out patrolling further into the island. ( Those are her favorite shifts. ) But, mostly, they all find themselves uneventful. The perks of being on an island, she supposes. It severely limits the number of infected they have to handle.
The number of non-infected, too. Boats aren’t exactly plentiful anymore.
Glancing down at her watch, Trish notes the time before lifting binoculars back to her eyes and turning to look out over the coast and then the ocean beyond. It’s humbling, really, when she thinks about it. All that blue. Peaceful. She wonders if the ocean knows what’s happened-- how thoroughly humanity has ruined itself-- how--
Every muscle in her body is suddenly tense-- every nerve-ending alight. Anticipation beats quickly in her chest, and she leans forward, refocusing and--
“Holy shit.” She can’t believe it. “Boat.” Then, voice raised. “Boat!”
Just there, up the coast at the next small jutting of empty shoreline outside town. A boat. A person.
Setting the binoculars down, Trish hurries back inside and down the stairs as quickly as possible. They need a team. They need to know what’s going on, and who’s out there.
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